So we left, and the Abbé Bourdin spoke his last words to me: “We owe our liberation to the English. We thank you. But why did you not come sooner? Two years sooner, three years. With your great army?” “Many of our men died to get here,” I said. “Thousands.” “That is true. That is true. You failed many times, I know. But you were so close. One big push--eh? One mighty effort? No?” The priest spoke a thought which I had heard expressed in the crowds. They were grateful for our coming, immensely glad, but could not understand why we had tried their patience so many years. That had been their greatest misery, waiting, waiting. I spoke to Pierre Nesle on the doorstep of the priest’s house. “Have you an idea that your sister is in Lille?” “No,” he said. “No. At least not more than the faintest hope. She is behind the lines somewhere--anywhere. She went away from home before the war--she was a singer--and was caught in the tide.” “No news at all?” I asked. “Her last letter was from Lille. Or rather a postcard with the Lille stamp. She said, I am amusing myself well, little brother.’ She and I were good comrades. I look for her face in the crowds. But she may be anywhere--Valenciennes, Maubeuge--God knows!” A shout of “_Vive la France!_” rose from a crowd of people surging up the street. Pierre Nesle was in the blue uniform of the _chasseurs à pied_, and the people in Lille guessed it was theirs because of its contrast to our khaki, though the “_horizon bleu_” was so different from the uniforms worn by the French army of ‘14. To them now, on the day of liberation, Pierre Nesle, our little _liaison_ officer, stood for the armies of France, the glory of France. Even the sight of our khaki did not fill them with such wild enthusiasm. So I lost him again as I had lost the little American doctor in the surge and whirlpool of the crowd. II